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Published: August 29th 2009
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Hair as Art
The morning of our wedding, I woke up early with my mother, and we were driven by my sister-in-law’s friend from our hotel at Pamukkale to a hairdresser in the center of Denizli. My future mother-in-law had organized the appointment, and this was to be the first time I had seen the hairdresser or the salon. No test run, no discussion of how my hair would be. No trying out ten different hairstyles to see which one worked best. Brides may do this in Turkey, but our special situation of arriving from abroad and cramming months’ worth of preparations into two weeks meant that I just showed up on the day of my wedding, hoping that they would make my hair look nice.
My laid-back attitude about everything probably helped me enjoy the wedding. In the end, none of the details really matter, do they? Does anyone really remember what kinds of flowers were on the table or what was served? I suppose the state of my hair mattered in that it would remain immortalized in the photographs, and I had brought a few pictures of styles I liked. I showed them to the hairdresser, a middle-aged woman with long black hair who appeared to be in a hurry, and tried to explain myself, hoping that she understood. I wanted some rhinestone clips in my updo, but it hadn’t occurred to me that I need to bring such a thing along. So the hairdresser, my mother-in-law (who had met us there) and I ran to the shop across the street and bought some clips for a few dollars. Much after we were married, I noticed that the fancy bridal hair clips they sell in the States can be very expensive. I suppose they are meant to be passed down from mother to daughter. But my cheapo clips did the trick. They were pretty enough, and nobody would probably notice them anyway.
My calm, passive attitude was made up for by the serious demeanors of the hairdressers. The black-haired hairdresser rapidly barked orders at two young, skinny men with heavily-gelled coifs, who proceeded to swiftly work together with matching brushes and dryers, one on the left side of my head and one on the right side, pulling and pushing as if they were in a hair-straightening competition. While I had been offered tea, I had no opportunity to drink it as the hair team created its masterpiece. Out came two matching curling irons and at least a hundred bobby pins, and the hair sculpture began to take shape. Occasionally, the authoritarian master appeared, critiqued the work of the understudies, and moved on. The final product, to my pleasant surprise, was exactly as I had wanted: an updo with a fountain of curls, decorated with a few sparkly clips. I was wearing my mother’s floral, button-down blouse and shorts, but my hair was ready. It had not been a relaxing experience. It made me feel like a piece of clay, and my scalp was already sore, but the hair monument atop my head, sealed by an entire can of hairspray, was ready for the day.
Us as Art
The hairdressers did a great job. They were not warm or gentle, but they were professional and skilled. I cannot say the same about our studio photographer.
Once Levent and I were dressed up in our wedding attire, we were shuttled to a photography studio. Unlike the US, these are located all over the cities in Turkey. They develop film in the front, in the back are small studio rooms for official photographs (which are needed for just about every official transaction). This particular studio also had an upstairs studio for portraits. It had backdrops and props.
It was about 10am. The state wedding ceremony was at 11. My head was throbbing from the weight and tightness of my hairdo. Wedding gowns are also not known for their comfort. Mine was a beautiful renaissance-style Cinderella gown with a full skirt and long lace sleeves, and was both heavy and hot. Levent was dapper and sweating in his charcoal tuxedo. The photographer entered the studio with an air of importance and superiority. He didn’t smile at us or introduce himself, as if his name and reputation preceded him. May I restate that this guy worked out of a little 2nd-floor studio in one of dozens of photo studios in Denizli? From the start, we weren’t impressed. And then he turned on his mood music: techno. Full blast.
And then the “artist” began his work. He shouted orders at his assistant and manipulated our necks and shoulders and arms into awkward, unnatural positions as if we were storefront mannequins. Then he turned on the lighting, went behind his camera, and commanded us to move this way and that way, chins up, shoulders back, smile, look into each others’ eyes, lift your left knee over your right ear, things like that. After a few minutes of patience, I stepped outside of my comfort zone of calm acceptance.
“Can you turn that music down?” I shouted, out of necessity so the Artist could hear me. “We can’t hear what you’re saying and the music is giving me a headache. We are about to get married and I don’t want to start the day with a headache. And you are putting us in positions that are not natural. We would never stand like this. How can I look comfortable?”
I was proud of myself, but the Artist was disturbed that I had criticized his mood music and his artistic direction. Of course, he had probably been lost in a daydream in which he was madly photographing supermodels for the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition. He needed that music to block out the images of a bride and groom in front of a backdrop of a French chateau. The music was turned down slightly, but an ego had been hurt, and in the tense rush of the final poses, a tripod was knocked over and a camera sent shattering to the ground. The Artist angrily accused his assistant of causing the accident, and the session ended on that note.
When we saw the final portraits, the bride and groom in the photos didn’t even look like us. They were us; the dress was mine, and the tuxedo was Levent’s. The hair was ours. But the studio had photoshopped our pictures so much that we were barely recognizable. Levent’s ever-present beard shadow was gone, and his eyebrows had been played with. My skin wasn’t a natural color, either. The backgrounds and poses looked as unnatural as they had in the studio. But when we complained, we were told that the photo studio experience was a rite of passage. It’s one I could have lived without, but at the very least it makes for a good blog entry.
Afterword
Much time passed. Then, one day, my mother-in-law went to the photo studio and asked who it was who had done our wedding portraits. She described us, and the man behind the counter said that it had been him, that he remembered us.
“So it was you who stressed them out on their wedding day and turned the music up too loud?” She said. She gave him an earful. All’s well that ends well!
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Aunt Marilyn
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You were a beautiful bride!!!!
Saskia, Thanks for the interesting story about your Turkish wedding. I only had the honor of seeing the Colorado one,but you were beautiful at both weddings, and by the way your hair looked beautiful even if it was uncomfortable. Seems like yesterday, Love, Aunt Marilyn